Bitter Sweet

I knew that she would love the Aloe Vera plant
She would love the juice that would relieve her joints
Would ease her pain, that was getting worse everyday
The healing plants, tall and proud. Pointing to the sky
Bringing hope, to cling to as the Aloe Vera clings to the hillside

Water

Water scares me - memories scar
Water challenges me - makes me strong
Water covers me - need to scream
splashing, refreshing, buoyant water
fitness, curative, powerful water
cleansing, rebirthing, spiritual water
Thirsty, drinking water I savour the taste - I win

Grape Aid

Many people do not see pips as important. But they are. Right now, across the world, many pips are sleeping out in the street.

So tonight as you sit on your grape filled bean bag, reading a grape based novel or putting on your grape earrings for a Friday night out. Remember, the homeless pips of Competa, or Bourdeaux or, indeed, Kent.

So take out your grape and cheque book now - and squeeze out the juice.


Give Grape!

Frog Squeak

Cat eyes stared through the vegetation
Cat ears stood forward to attention
Cat's whiskers twitched for extension
Something to amuse the cat
Possible to feed the cat
Definitely meant trouble for the cat
I just needed to catch it for prevention

Cat

Cat like he slinked
Cat like he stared
Cat like he statue posed
filled with curiosity of a cat
the elegance stance of a cat
the silence of a cat
Why? Because he was a bloody cat

Always the Dust

Pancho kicked the dust over the traces of his own footprints. Footprints still visible from the last journey. The journey he took everyday. The footprints a reminder, like the branding on Gonzales’ cattle, that Pancho belonged to el pueblo. El pueblo would never let him go.

Pancho curled his lip, spat, bent forward and inspected the mixture. He was part of the dust. Always the dust.

An ant reared at the gob like a minute stallion; Pancho smiled and crushed him beneath his worn espadrille, his back braced like a matador.

But Pancho was not a brave man. If he was a brave man he would fight the bulls in Malaga. If he was a brave man he would fight with his brothers and his uncles against El Caudillo. If he was a brave man he would take Maria to the fiesta; he would dance whilst the old men clapped and the young men stamped their feet; he would smile at Maria, to reassure her, as the young girls gazed on in envy; he would drink a glass of good brandy in one swallow, and the camarero would fill it again without a word.

But he was Pancho. He was Pancho the fool. She was Maria Lopez. Maria, with the dancing eyes. Maria with the bottom that rolled like a mare's. Maria with the hair as black as the silk ribbon that fluttered on the funeral director's hat.

Maria with Pancho the fool? Pah! He would stumble as the old men laughed and the young men shouted and the young girls pointed with their other hands clasped to theirgiggling mouths. The camarero would sneer as Pancho choked on the fiery liquid.

As he followed his footsteps into el pueblo once again, Pancho's tears dropped and mingled with the ants and the dust. His throat closed tight and would not let him spit. He kicked at his footprints, stumbled and fell backwards into the dust.

The dust. Always the dust.

Pride of Place

Today he was Spain; sipping, gulping, savouring his audience's attention. They lapped up the staccato of his feet and the sweetness of his rhythm. Today he was Spanish culture, he was Spanish pride.

Young men sold their souls and gave their all to share a drop of Lothario's allure. His passion captured in beautiful movement, captured in a heart beat, rooted to the spot

El Noche del Vino

Refugees

The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees avoiding the late afternoon sun. Long silences interspersed with old stories, latest news and shared history.

Strangers appeared as small dots in the distance following the rough track from out of the hillside. A ragged bunch clutching their meagre possessions in ill-assorted, mismatched bags. A little money, bottles of warm water, nuts, berries and old dry stale bread with melting cheese. Broken shoes held together with pink plastic; dusty, dirty, sweaty.

They reached the locals and formal greetings were exchanged !hola! !tardes! Both wanting to ask more; “Why are you here?”, “Where did you come from?”, “Tell me about the land.” A nod, a shy smile and they moved on hoping to find shelter.

The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees as the sun slipped down. In this insular, closed, yet welcoming society, centred on family they shared one question.


¿Who is the mother?

The last flamenco

With slow hesitation he appeared
.........Poised
His being sauntered across the stage
.........Anticipation
Arms lifted with fleured hands
.........Clicked
Cuban heel raised eyes transfixed
.........Tapped
A musical note strings the air
.........Lingering
Vocal sounds frame his body
.........Click click tap
Secret smile thrown across his shoulder
.........Tap tap stamp
Jacket lifted white shirt exposed
.........Inhale
Solid stance eyes look down
.........Stillness
Arm raised eyes gazed stage smacked noise cracked bass beat intense heat

Clay Worries

clay worries

clay troubles

clay dilemas

exploded clay

broken clay

cracked clay

the ancients built better

things with clay than you.

OLD PEOPLE

OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL
OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE STILL

Unexpected Alien

Pink Hatted Peon

A pink hat, a neon sign
that this man, although of peasant line,
is of now.
and yet somehow

that face, those lines,
speaks of the older times:
times when the men
would go and only return when

the baskets would brim
and the children would grin
the church bells ringing
the choirs loud singing.

he takes off the pink hat, places it on the ground
for a second the air is still; no sound
he thinks of how things used to be
and, bareheaded, sleeps beneath the tree.

An Old Drunk, A Dog and a Radio

Love, loss, passion: let the flies play.
You sleep in the sun,
I pour
another
brandy.

worries, women,
sparking eyes,
sharp tongues
and
the songs
that make me feel
do not concern you.

I pat
your warm body
turn up the songs,
and pour
another
brandy.